


The Boys

by foxjar



Category: Persona 5
Genre: Anal Sex, Angst, Blackmail, Bottom Kitagawa Yusuke, Bottom Kurusu Akira, Drama, Gang Rape, Hand Jobs, Implied/Referenced Abuse, M/M, Pining, Post-Canon, Sexual Assault, Sexual Coercion, Victim Aroused
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-18
Updated: 2020-12-30
Packaged: 2021-03-10 04:47:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,484
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27828469
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/foxjar/pseuds/foxjar
Summary: When Akira tries to help someone, it all ends up coming back to hurt the person he cares about the most.Akira tries to spit on the man in front of him — the one dragging him up by his hair, making his scalp burn — but he ends up spitting all over his own chin.It was worth the effort."You're disgusting," Akira says. He's afraid, but the fear doesn't seep into his voice. It's the disgust that rings through, loud and clear.It's the wrong thing to say, but as the men circle around him, there's really nothing he could say that would be right. No silver tongue could get him out of this mess.
Relationships: Kitagawa Yusuke/Kurusu Akira, Kitagawa Yusuke/Original Male Character(s), Kurusu Akira/Original Male Character(s)
Comments: 10
Kudos: 41
Collections: Shukita Halloween





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Shukita Halloween (day five) prompts: firsts + holiday.
> 
> I meant to have this up during the event itself, but the word count just refused to cease.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The first chapter is mostly mobpego.

"No" means "yes."

Even before Akira was sent off to Tokyo, it was the same.

When his mother asked him, her lip quivering, whether or not he truly assaulted that woman, he said no. She heard yes; she wanted yes. Her shouts filled the front room of their home, a place that was supposed to represent safety. When his mother asked him how he could do such a thing, he didn't know what to say.

Akira is so tired of talking. His voice is hoarse, his throat raw from all of his attempts to defend himself. But it doesn't matter. None of it does. Even when he screams, his voice is silent.

His time in Tokyo hasn't been any different in that regard. Everyone around him is convinced of his guilt even before hearing his side of the story. He doesn't defend himself; he just slinks through the halls of Shujin, trying to remain as inconspicuous as possible. If he sticks to the shadows, maybe he'll be able to get through his final year of high school in one piece.

Inside him, the fury whirls. His hands clench inside the pockets of his slacks. All he sees are washed-out shades of red.

His fellow high schoolers, he can almost understand. Akira just happens to be the latest topic of gossip; it'll pass soon. Right? But the adults are different. They stare at him even more unkindly than the others, suspicious and hateful with their eyes thinned, just waiting for him to lash out.

He never does. Why defend himself? It'll just make things worse. Why not just let this year pass as uneventfully as he can?

The Metaverse changed that, of course. It gave him something to fight for over the course of his year-long banishment from home, and it even helped bring his confidence back to the surface. That same confidence he had tried to bury so deep inside of himself.

Was it a mistake to try to hide it, or does his fault lie in allowing it to resurface?

He returned to his hometown, but his family had changed. His parents still couldn't look him in the eyes. No matter who comes to Akira's defense, their guilty verdict refuses to budge.

Maybe they hated him all along, just waiting for a reason to toss him out. But he fought for them so hard, fought to be a man worthy of their pride. But there was no pride, just silent dinners where the only sounds were the muted rush of his parents devouring their food before the loud scratching of chair legs against the floor signaled their flight. Then there were the dirty dishes, left piled in the sink for Akira to scrub as he contemplated his life choices.

Was coming back to Tokyo a mistake? Perhaps. Would returning so soon be an admission of defeat? Akira didn't care. He wanted to see his friends again. He wanted to be happy again.

So now he's back in Tokyo as if the blip in his schedule had never happened. There's never a day where he thinks that he made the wrong decision, that he should have stayed with his parents after all.

Until today, that is.

He sees the men from the corner of his eye, a shimmer of movement as they corner a woman in the dank alleyway.

Akira's feet are so swift now, as light as a feather. Why withhold assistance when he's so sure he has the power to help? The confidence to enact change?

Before he can stop himself, he's heading straight for the men in the alley. He's clutching the strap of his bag over his shoulder as Morgana hisses "no" at him, but Akira cannot be stopped. There's a woman in the middle of the group — nearly half a dozen men — and their hands cascade along her body as she shakes her head violently. Her lips part to scream, but one of the men kisses her, wrenching a hand from across her chest to squeeze her breast.

Akira can't watch, can't turn away. So what else is there to do? He taps one of the men on the shoulder, and he wheels around to face Akira with fury on his face, his cheeks red and puffy in the cool night air. His breath steams.

Morgana tries to scratch at one of the men, but Akira manages to convince him to go get help before things get rough. He's grateful that he had that sense, at least; he's grateful too that he was able to preoccupy the men enough for the woman to slip away. Akira wonders what her name was; if he'll ever see her again; if she's happy he tried to help her. Maybe she thinks he's a fool.

 _She'd be right,_ Akira thinks.

The first punch hits his stomach, stealing his breath from him as his knees give out.

"Better stay out of other people's fucking business," one man says, spitting on him. Akira doesn't know what to say; his mind is both whirring with pain and devoid of thought at the same time as his body slips to the ground.

The next hit comes flying toward his face, just a few centimeters away from connecting with his skull when one of the men pulls the attacker back.

"Y'know, he's not half-bad looking."

Damned with a single phrase — or had Akira's fate been sealed the moment he stepped in to help? Or even before that?

"He's wearing a high school uniform," another man chimes in. And for a while, the dark alley is silent. When Akira looks back toward the street, it seems so far away. An endless hallway. If he screamed, would anyone come to help? Would anyone hear him at all?

"Even better, wouldn't you say?" Akira's head is forcibly jerked back toward the leering men again; the muscles in his neck throb and ache. "I've always wanted to fuck a high schooler."

No one asks why. How did the man come to harbor such a desire? No one chastises him. Why would they?

Akira tries to spit on the man in front of him — the one dragging him up by his hair, making his scalp burn — but he ends up spitting all over his own chin.

It was worth the effort.

"You're disgusting," Akira says. He's afraid, but the fear doesn't seep into his voice. It's the disgust that rings through, loud and clear.

It's the wrong thing to say, but as the men circle around him, there's really nothing he could say that would be right. No silver tongue could get him out of this mess.

They unbuckle his belt, pull down his pants, and shove him against the wall. The brick scratches the palms of his hands, and he screams as the first man enters him dry, tearing him and forcing an agony upon him that he never could have imagined. How can his body hurt so much? How is it not shutting down?

One man after the other. Sometimes twice. Akira's knees are weak and his hands are scratched raw and his throat is hoarse.

He was right. No one heard him at all.

* * *

Half a dozen phones are taking pictures of Akira, the shutter sounds clicking again and again. Does that mean it's almost over?

Someone lazily pulls up his pants, barely high enough to cover him back up. The air is cool on his skin, a whisper of relief.

When will the shutter sounds cease so that he can sleep? He doesn't have to see the images to know what the men are up to. He'd take their threats at face value, but no, they have to dig even deeper into the still aching wounds.

A phone is shoved into his face, the screen so bright it makes him wince.

"We know who you are," the man declares. "Name. School. Home address. Don't think for a second that you're safe. If you try to tattle —"

The worst part isn't that the men took pictures of him with his own phone: plaid pants around his ankles, ass spanked red and raw, come oozing from between his legs. The file itself is easy enough to delete, even if it's burned into his memory. Time will be a salve for that, won't it?

The worst part is the addition they left in his contact list: The Boys. Despite leaving only minutes before, they call him up, making his phone screen glow with the name.

They could come back and hurt him even more, but the pettiness seeps in. The thought of irritating them even mildly makes Akira smile. So he ignores the call, letting his phone vibrate until it finally goes to his voicemail. Every part of his body hurts — hips, legs, neck, scalp — but the ache in his jaw from smiling is worth it.

Defiance in the darkest times.

For a while, he manages to doze off. Consciousness evades him, unwilling to face reality. He doesn't dream; there's only darkness, thick like smoke.

When he wakes up, it's still dark. Morgana is beside him, ears alert as he growls. He can see the evidence of the assault: Akira's crumpled body, the injuries on his face, the haphazard state of his pants. He must be able to smell it, too. The sour, pervasive stench of them.

The Boys.

Of all the people Mona managed to find, it's Ann. He feels her before he sees her: her pigtails tickling his cheek as she leans over him, the soft scent of roses as she gingerly cups his face.

"No," Akira croaks. Out of everyone, not Ann. It can't be Ann.

"Stop wriggling," she says, her voice thick with emotion, likely holding back tears.

She helps Akira up, slinging his arm across her shoulders for support before they begin their long journey home with Mona trotting behind them.

* * *

Takemi's office chair squeaks as she leans closer to Akira, tapping her clipboard with a pen.

"Is there anything you'd like to tell me?" she asks.

Akira shakes his head. On the way over to visit the clinic, he ended up listening to the voicemail left on his phone — "When this number calls, you pick up immediately, understand?" — but even before that, the threat had rung loud and clear.

"Nothing, then?" Her lips press tightly together as she tries to withhold her usual snark. "You come in here, looking like —"

For a while, she just gawks at him. Maybe she's thinking about how to kindly tell Akira that he was a mess when he came into her office, beat up and sullied in ways that most people could never truly comprehend.

"Anyway," she continues, straightening up in her chair, another loud squeak to signal the change, "you come in here like that, then you ask me to test you for STDs, and then you just clam up."

Nothing he could say would placate her. He nods.

"That's right."

This isn't her or anyone else's fight. It's on Akira to choose how things will unfold.

It isn't long after the first incident before the number calls again. Maybe a week or two. They text him pictures of Ann as she helps steer Akira to Takemi's clinic, zooming in on her chest. Then they send him her address. What time she usually gets home. When the lights in her room tend to shut off for the night.

Without the Metaverse to protect himself and those dear to him, he runs headfirst into danger. Could Sae help in some way? Could she call someone or pull some strings?

It doesn't matter. The men send him a photo of Ann's front door.

"Home alone quite a bit, huh?" the text reads. "What shameful parents."

Akira is responding so fast his hands are shaking, his palms sweating as he makes half a dozen typos. He begs them not to hurt her. That he's on his way.

"Good boy," comes the reply.

* * *

In a way, Akira remains whole. He is still alive, his spirit still raging within. He is alive.

Even as the countless men fuck him, even as his vision swims and his body threatens to collapse.

Akira is alive, and, against all odds, there is still fire in his heart.


	2. Chapter 2

Fireworks light up the night sky in flashes of blue and green. The different colored sparks make Akira think of his friends, all so far away now. Moved out of Tokyo to pursue their dreams. Even Futaba is spending the day with Sojiro, leaving Akira and Yusuke to make their own plans.

They're meeting at the bench by the trees. The words glowing on his phone's screen are burned into his eyes, even when he's tucked his phone away.

Bench by the trees.

Above, the fireworks flicker and sparkle. Too beautiful for this world, he thinks — much like Yusuke himself. Not exactly innocent, after everything he's been through, but bright. Willing to look past the darkness, to sift through it until he sees light.

Yusuke's always made Akira feel that way. Sometimes it's like Akira is the only person in the room, having grabbed his attention. It isn't that Yusuke wants to paint him; he's had Akira model for him for both practice and reference, but never for the framework of an actual painting.

When Yusuke's eyes turn to him, drawn away from something of genuine beauty, he is the smallest fish in the sea. Struggling against the waves, flopping desperately in the sand. He can handle Yusuke looking at him; Yusuke looks at everyone, after all. He peers at them, exploring them with senses honed through his years of painting.

What Akira struggles with is when he's the center of Yusuke's attention. When he turns to him as if he's said something witty, as if he's inspired Yusuke for his next project. It is a strange sort of limelight that Yusuke provides, always passing from one person to the next. But when that spotlight is on Akira, he finally feels like he's able to shine.

Before everything began. Before the Boys: the men, the defilers.

When Yusuke looks at him now, he shies away from the attention. Wouldn't Yusuke much rather inspect Futaba for inspiration? Maybe a stranger? Anyone, anything else.

Akira is the tiniest of insects beneath a looming microscope. Ever since that first time. Ever since he fell into the rhythm that is now his life: pick up phone, meet up, feel another part of himself slip away.

He can't allow anyone else to see that part of him. Most of the time, he won't even allow himself to peer too closely. There is danger in overthinking. Trauma in digging too deep.

But now there's a hand squeezing his shoulder. A voice in his ear, breath hot on his neck.

"Good to see you," the man says.

Akira's first thought is that he should be surprised. Disgusted, even. But no, his first thought is a plea: _Just get it over with._

Who will the Boys threaten him with today? Now that Ann is back out of Tokyo, studying abroad, it can't be her. Will they mention how simple it would be for an accident to befall Ryuji, hindering the physical rehabilitation he's been working so hard for?

No words. Just the shove that nearly sends him toppling through the grass and the tree that catches him, the bark scratching his hands. His yukata is torn from him, even as the sky booms and sparkles above.

Akira bites his lip, tastes the blood, as the first man forces himself inside. The fireworks mask his gasps of pain. He's gotten better at keeping quiet, but he has yet to master the skill. How could he?

The minutes feel like hours, drawn-out and looping over and over. One man pulls his hair as he fucks him, his hips slamming into him. Another spits insults at him, telling him how much he loves what they're doing to him, how grateful he should be for the attention lavished upon him.

Then comes the crunching of leaves, the sound so unexpected between the bursts of fireworks that Akira snaps his head toward the trees.

The glow of a cellphone screen, then darkness. When another burst of fireworks lights up the sky, Akira has to bite his lip to keep himself quiet.

_No._

_It can't be._

But it is — Yusuke, arriving for their rendezvous. They're so close, even midst the trees, that Yusuke would be able to see if he turned his head; would be able to hear if his attention wasn't darting between his phone and the sky.

It's like he hears Akira begging him not to look, pleading — and then those eyes are on him yet again, those eyes that see so much and yet so little. Those eyes that turn to him for guidance, for a spark.

Akira's skin crawls, tiny pricks of dread biting at every inch of him. He looks away, but it's too late. It was always too late.

"Look who's finally here," one man says, letting Akira's body fall to the ground, no longer supported by the hands on his hips. No longer supported by the man who had been raping him. The third, the fourth of the evening? Akira has lost count.

The crunching leaves. The sudden silence as Yusuke stands his ground, sensing danger.

Akira should have told him; he should have basked in that spotlight. He shouldn't have been afraid to put darkness into words. Yusuke would have been disgusted, but not with Akira. With the men, with the world.

But it's too late for that now. Too late for so many things.

Akira doesn't know if Yusuke tries to run. He shouts the warning, to run, to escape, but he's pulled up and pushed against the tree again before he can see what happens. The bark digs into his palms as he hears Yusuke's muffled voice, a hand clamped tight over his mouth.

Everything is Akira's fault. He doesn't regret helping the woman in the alley, but could he have done it differently? Would the police have arrived in time? Would they have believed a word he said?

His past decisions are set in stone. There's no taking back any of the choices he's made.

The rough bark, the muffled screams, the hands on his thighs. A sea of regret, and Akira is still that same doomed fish, flopping on the shore. But now he isn't alone in his torment.

The men drag them further into the trees, so thick that Akira can just barely make out the trickles of color in the sky. They're pushed onto their knees to face each other, and even with his hair twisted by one of the men's hands, Yusuke still says his name.

"Akira —"

Yusuke's eyes dart across his body, soaking in the damage. There's a glint of fear in his eyes, his head shaking in disbelief. Akira's words stick in his throat. What could he say now, other than that he's sorry?

Hands are squeezing at his hips again, pulling his body back to meet another man's cock, forcing its way inside him. Yusuke is staring at him, eyes wide, and all Akira can think about are all his mistakes. He should have looked away, at least. He should have hidden his pain.

The searing pain, twisting its way through his body, threatening to wrench a scream from his lips. His knees are digging into the hard ground, damp from the morning rain. If only they'd let his mind escape. If only.

A sharp tug of his hair brings Akira's head back up to face Yusuke, his yukata being torn from him even as he struggles and lashes out. His limbs are a storm as he tries to hit, scratch, anything.

Begging is useless. Akira knows this from all the times he's tried to get the men to move slower, to give him a break, to stop. Please, stop.

But he wouldn't be himself if he didn't try.

"Please," he says, throat dry and aching. "Don't hurt him."

"What's that?" Again his head is roughly pulled up, this time to face the man forcing him to look, to see.

"He doesn't want us to hurt his friend," another man says, snickering. "Thinks he's got some kind of leverage."

"Is that so? Maybe you'd do me a little favor, then. For your friend, of course."

Akira smells him before he feels his cock pressing against his lips, the heavy stench of sweat and skin. His stomach lurches at the thought of willingly opening himself to this man, but what if it helps? What if the men lose interest in Yusuke and decide they don't want to hurt him, after all?

So he opens his mouth, letting the man's cock fuck his throat, making his jaw ache. Every time he thinks he's hit his limit, the man pulls out and rubs the tip of himself along Akira's lips. Is it to torment him, or is it a small mercy?

The minutes stretch into what feels like hours. When the man inside him comes, he digs his nails into Akira's hips and rocks so deep inside him that he screams against the cock in his mouth.

"Sounds like a moan to me," one man says. "You're really into this, huh?"

Another man enters him moments later. Then the cock in his throat is fucking his mouth faster and faster, his hair being pulled and twisted, as bitterness fills his mouth. The agony never ends, but at least he can't hear Yusuke sobbing in pain. That has to count for something.

But not for much longer.

The man who had come in his mouth pats Akira's head almost lovingly, stepping back to the side to let him see Yusuke, still on his knees before him, but naked now. Trembling like a leaf.

"A valiant effort," the man says mockingly. "But not quite enough. Didn't really feel like you put your heart in it, you know?"

Nothing could satisfy him. Nothing could satisfy any of them.

A scream erupts from Akira's throat the moment a man lines himself up behind Yusuke, jerking his hips forward in a rush. Akira can see on Yusuke's face the moment he's filled, that first moment of agony.

The first of many.

Yusuke's face falls, but not before Akira sees the way his brow contorts, his eyes bright with horror, his lips struggling to suppress the agonized groan.

A hand pulls Yusuke's hair, forcing him to look into Akira's eyes. Those beautiful gray eyes, always so full of passion and curiosity, now twisted with confusion and pain.

Akira is in Yusuke's spotlight again, but for all the wrong reasons.

The man fucking Akira smacks his ass as he rolls his hips into him, demanding Akira crawl. But where is there to crawl? He's smacked again, his ass raw and stinging, so he tries. His knees ache against the hard ground, but there's really nowhere to go, nowhere other than —

"Kiss him," a voice drawls.

Yusuke is still looking at Akira, but he isn't all there; his eyes are glossy, almost looking through him. What might he be seeing, if not Akira? What image is he holding on to?

For a fleeting moment, they are somewhere else, anywhere else. The pain is dull, faraway. Distant.

Akira brushes a tear from Yusuke's face with his thumb, and then he kisses him. He presses his forehead against Yusuke's as the pain sets in again, the men rocking into both of them. Akira's orgasm tears through him as he kisses Yusuke, his knees shaking as he pants against his lips. His hips tremble, rocking forward as the cock inside him grazes that spot inside him.

If only he could resist giving them the satisfaction of his release. If only.

His nails dig into the dirt, and for the first time in hours, he feels alive. This is a pain he has control over; a pain he can continue or cease at any time. Even as his fingers worm their way into the earth, he keeps kissing Yusuke. He gasps against his lips, butting their foreheads together while the men laugh.

The laughter never seems to stop — and why should it, when the men are having the time of their lives? When no one is coming to stop them? They are tucked away, deep in the woods; every so often, a firework explodes in the sky, but Akira can't see it. He just hears the pop, pop, pop.

The man behind him pulls Akira back to sit in his lap, still facing Yusuke. He wants to fight, but he's so tired; his whole body aches, trembling in the cool air. The man beneath him grips his hips, easing Akira up and down his cock, slower now, while another man brushes his erection against Akira's cheek.

His body moves in a blur of motion, and in front of him, the men position Yusuke to mirror Akira, their hands digging into his thighs as they prop him up. Akira's eyes have adjusted to the dark, and he can see where their bodies meet, albeit not every lurid detail. Yusuke's arousal is hard and full against his stomach, twitching as the man beneath him forces him onto his cock over and over.

It isn't Yusuke's fault; Akira would never blame him, of course. Akira's own body is tingling again, his skin aflame, his cock aching. But the thought that these men managed to spur arousal in Yusuke's body infuriates him — more than the man inside himself, angling his hips just right and pressing that spot inside Akira that almost has him gasping "please." More than the man pulling his hair, sliding his cock along Akira's lips.

It isn't the men's place to touch Yusuke, to arouse him. It isn't Akira's, either, but maybe it could've been. Maybe if he'd been more honest, more open with his friend.

But it's too late for that now.

The man fucking Akira squeezes his thighs and moves closer to Yusuke again, close enough for Akira to feel the heat of his breath on his face. No one stops him when he reaches out to touch Yusuke's chest, trailing down until his hand is just above the tip of Yusuke's cock. If only he could ask if this is okay. If only the words didn't stick in his throat. He doesn't want the men to hear his request, but he doesn't want to let his hand move until he's sure.

Akira leans closer, his lips against Yusuke's ear.

"Can I touch you?" he asks as the men rock into them, crushing their chests together, leaving them both a gasping mess.

Yusuke's hair is wet with sweat against his neck, and Akira shivers at the chill. Who is he to ask? What kind of monster is he?

Instead of responding with words, Yusuke touches his hand, threading their fingers together before he leads Akira's hand to his arousal. The smallest of blessings: Yusuke's consent. Akira wraps his fingers around him, smearing pre-come with his thumb, and when Yusuke moans again, it's finally a willing sound that escapes his throat.

And if Akira can give this to him, the smallest glimmer of pleasure, then who is he to deny them both the solace?

It doesn't change the horror of their reality, but it gives them something to lose themselves in. Akira kisses him again, their lips meshing together awkwardly as the men force them against each other, their thrusts pushing them forward. Their noses bump together uncomfortably; their foreheads butt a little too hard; Yusuke's mouth hits his chin, and Akira can feel the sharpness of his teeth dig into his skin.

It's not perfect — far from it — but it's something. Every time one of the men hits that spot deep inside him, Akira imagines it's Yusuke behind him, filling him, his fingernails pressing crescent shapes into his hips.

Akira's thighs ache from being held open, his jaw sore from pleasing half a dozen men with his mouth. The sky is above him, the earth below him, and somewhere in-between, he is still alive. His body is limp, and still the men push into him, that spark inside him making him jolt. 

He's been tormented by these men for weeks, and yet he still thinks of Yusuke: how much pain he must be in, how the shock must be overwhelming him. Akira would do anything to thieve the trauma from him, to return the brightness to his eyes, but he can't. All he can do now is help Yusuke endure.

The only pain that matters anymore is the twinge in Akira's wrist as he strokes Yusuke, his heart begging him to finish — for them all to finish. He tries not to think about how this might be Yusuke's first time. Was he forced into his first sexual experience with another person today? His first kiss? Part of Akira is terrified to find out, because there is no retrieving what has been lost. There is no turning back the clock to before he agreed to meet up with Yusuke.

And it's all Akira's fault. All of his mistakes, all of his assumptions and held back truths, have led them to this very moment. Yusuke doesn't have to forgive him — who could? — because Akira won't even forgive himself.

Yusuke's orgasm hits him while the men are still fucking them, pushing their bodies together. Akira kisses his neck before swallowing his moans with his lips, a selfish gesture — mine, mine — as his fingers feel his release. He smears it up Yusuke's chest with one hand, while still lazily stroking him with the other. The way Yusuke's body jerks and trembles when he comes is everything. They're the smallest things for Akira to focus on — Yusuke shivering beneath his hands, his eyes slipping shut to the world — but they keep Akira's heart steady, even as the last man finally pulls out of him, letting his body slump against Yusuke's.

He's gulping in his first breaths of what feels like the freshest air, tainted with sweat and sex, but he is free. The men laugh, zipping up their pants and pulling at his hair, forcing Akira to face them so that they can sneer about the come dripping from his face. Akira barely feels it; the roots of his hair protest, but it feels like a secondhand sort of pain. If he could see his eyes, he's sure he'd have the same glazed-over look he saw in Yusuke's eyes earlier.

Shattered but still alive. Willing to pick up the pieces as he always is, but for now he just wants to curl up and cease to exist for a while.

When the men finally leave after promising they'll see them again "real soon," Akira rolls off of Yusuke and onto the grass. The ground is cold, making goosebumps prickle his skin, but it is freedom.

Akira's still half-hard, despite the orgasms wrung from his body, but he refuses to touch himself. He thinks of the come oozing from inside him, of the opaque bruises sure to mottle his skin. Then he thinks of that same trauma for Yusuke, and it's like someone's punched him in the stomach.

He rolls over to face Yusuke, but he's still looking up at the sky, unmoving.

"We should go," Akira finally says. He licks his lips; his throat is bone dry.

To Akira's horror, the first words that slip from Yusuke's mouth after their ordeal are apologies. He should've known, he should've been stronger. Their time in the Metaverse instilled them with a sort of confidence, and with their powers gone, the real world seems so impossible to traverse.

"You didn't do anything wrong," Akira protests. He wants to reach out to Yusuke, to touch him, to console him as no one else could. Is there anyone else in the world that understands him as Akira does? "I couldn't protect you. I couldn't even protect —"

_Myself._

Before the self-pity can swallow him, Akira tries again.

"Listen to me. It's not your fault. You did nothing wrong. That's my line, anyway. I failed you."

_In so many ways._

If only he'd told Yusuke about what was happening. If only he hadn't agreed to meet up today. If only, if only.

Akira shivers when Yusuke touches his shoulder. Is it to comfort Akira, or more for himself? Akira's just amazed he'd be willing to touch him after everything that's happened.

The smallest glimmer of hope, shattered in an instant.

"It's nothing new," Yusuke says, his voice strained. "I'm not exactly accustomed to it, but it's nothing new to me, I assure you."

And again Yusuke's eyes have that glossiness to them, those held back tears, that penetrating stare that looks right through Akira.

It's nothing new for either of them, then.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mobkita otp. ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)


End file.
